


Childhood Is The Kingdom Where Nobody Dies

by emmiemac



Series: The Cleganes in Winterfell [10]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-04
Updated: 2014-09-15
Packaged: 2018-02-16 03:37:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2254425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmiemac/pseuds/emmiemac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sandor, Sansa and their children must face an unexpected loss. Title by a poem by Edna St Vincent Millay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_DISCLAIMER: This story is entirely based on character[s] from George R.R. Martin's_ A Song of Ice and Fire

****

** Childhood Is the Kingdom Where Nobody Dies **

_-Edna St. Vincent Millay_

 

Sandor stood looking out the window of the solar of Winterfell, staring into the darkness instead of warming himself against the evening chill by the fiery hearth. It was still summer, but it had already snowed in the North, though the previous night’s snowfall had melted off before midday. Nevertheless, it was a reminder.

 _Winter is coming_ were the words of his wife’s House, the Starks of Winterfell; though Sansa was now a Clegane. She was his wife and the mother of his five children; soon to be six if…

_If what, dog? If they live? Seven hells, don’t let it be happening again._

The birth of their third child, their son Robb, had very nearly cost the little bird her life but she had recovered; she had recovered and regained her strength and in time had given him more sons.

_She was younger then; and stronger…bugger yourself, dog: she’s still young and strong._

Sandor was nigh fifteen years older than his wife and he had first known her when she was a girl; sometimes, he realized, he still though of her as that girl.

_A pretty little talking bird…_

He looked around the solar now. It had once been dark and empty and scarred by fire, much like himself, he thought archly. It was the Boltons who had burned and then occupied Winterfell and then abandoned it again when the Starks returned with the help of Stannis Baratheon and his army, and they had left nothing of the old days when the Stark family, a line eight thousand years old, had ruled the North, first as kings and then as wardens under the Targaryens.

It had taken them years to rebuild, and Winterfell would never reclaim all that it had lost but they had built a new life: Sansa and he and her brother Rickon with the help of her great-uncle Blackfish Tully and the Northern lords had fought to defeat their enemies and then struggled with the cold and deprivations of the long winter and their many losses.

But defeat them they had and Sansa had immediately set to rebuilding the North by strengthening their garrison, parceling out land to be tilled and by being a fair warden, as her father Lord Eddard Stark had been before her. She had let the wildlings from beyond the Wall settle on crofts and work in castles and villages, so long as they pledged to obey the laws. In time even men and families from the ruined Riverlands and parts of the Crownlands had migrated North to benefit from her generosity and her plans to rebuilt. Anyone willing to work hard and contribute to the rise of the North, and had fought against the Lannisters, was welcomed.

It had all been Sansa’s work, he twitched a smile of pride now: that pretty little bird.

But winter would be coming again, as it always did for everyone in Westeros.

“My lord,” the maester spoke from the doorway.

Sandor turned immediately; and he was daunted by the man’s solemn voice and face. Maesters were solemn by nature, ti seemed to Sandor; and their learned seriousness and grey robes did nothing to dispel the impression.

“It’s done then?” Sandor rasped gruffly, masking his worried heart behind a surly demeanor.

“The child is born, my lord; and Lady Clegane is well,” the man assured him, knowing that wa _s_ boundto be his greatest concern. “The child, however…“ He looked even more somber now.

“It was too soon. She wasn’t due to whelp for well over another moon’s turn.”

Sansa had left the great hall at midday to lie down and rest after sitting with her lord brother as he heard petitions and dispensed justice, but then her water had broken on the stairs. He had not heard her cry for help because he had been in the yard; but others had heard and she had been helped to their chamber where the maester had been summoned.

“That is correct, my lord,” the maester acknowledged him sadly now. “I regret…the child is very small; and not strong. I would advise you go to them quickly.“

Sandor was out the door and walking towards the stairs before the man had finished speaking. He took the steps two at a time, his heavy brow furrowing in concern at what he would find.

The room was quiet despite the presence of many women. Usually there were happy whisperings and soft exclamations over the babe and congratulations to the mother; but this lot was subdued. The only sounds were the cracking of the hearth fire and the soft shuffle of feet. The wildling Osha, who had attended every birth since their first winter in the castle after the young Starks had returned, was directing the others to finish making up the now clean bed and to gather up the basins and soiled linens and leave.

“I’ll stay if ye likes, m’lady,” she told Sansa now, “jes’ ‘til the maester comes back.”

Sansa was still looking into the wrapped bundle in her arms; she had not yet looked up to see Sandor.

“No, thank you, Osha,” she spoke absently and quietly, “I’m sure he will return with my lord.”

Sandor cleared his throat and she turned her head to him and tried to smile.

“Sandor…” her voice seemed to catch. “We- we have another daughter.” Her blue eyes did not shine with happiness but with near-tears, and her face was drawn despite her feeble attempt to smile for him. He steeled himself to approach her and as the wildling woman passed him in the doorway, he saw the solemn look of warning in her eyes.

He nodded encouragingly to Sansa as he stood by the bed. “We both said how we wanted another girl someday, little bird,” he rasped.

Sansa bit her lip tremulously. “Oh, Sandor,” she whispered now. “It’s too soon: she-“

He came and sat on the bed beside her now, and looked anxiously into the nest of blankets. He saw an impossibly tiny face: dark pink and wrinkled, like a plucked chicken, with a spindly neck. Their last four children had been boys: round and robust; even their first, a daughter, had been healthy and strong. Sandor’s heart sank and he swallowed hard as he realized why the maester had urged him to come quickly.

 _This one is truly a little bird_ , he thought, _just a tiny hatchling…_

“She…” he tried to think of something to say. She was his pup after all. “She is-“

“She is so small,” Sansa whispered hoarsely as she carefully tucked the blanket around her newborn’s face. “And she’s so quiet; she hasn’t cried or…or anything. The maester kept her from me at first, Sandor,” she gasped as she held back a sob, “I- I think she was not breathing well.” Her tears came now, silent and heart-wrenching. “He- he said to keep her warm…and to hope she would want to n-nurse; I’ve tried, Sandor, but she won’t-“ She broke off with a sob of helplessness.

Sandor immediately forgot his stony reticence and put his arms around her so that he was looking down at their child. The babe didn’t squirm, or sigh, or turn her head to their voices as the others had.

Sandor had once thought that he was dying. He had sat under a tree on the banks of the Trident and felt his strength leave him and pain and fever take his senses. He had once thought the little bird might die, and he had sat with her endlessly as she rested and recovered from a different difficult birth that had nearly claimed her life. And he had lost his beloved sister to a violent brute of a brother when he had been too young and helpless to defend her. Each time he had felt an emptiness and loss that had overwhelmed him and had dragged him into a dark and silent netherworld of nothingness.

_A man should be alive or dead; not stuck in some desolate in-between of not-knowing._

But this…this was something altogether more terrible. Sandor’s guts churned and his head felt as though in a vise. What gods made a newborn babe to suffer: gave it life only to threaten to snatch it away? Must his new daughter’s first moments in the world be a struggle?  He was not one to sob as the little bird was doing; Sandor wanted to rage and to fight and to curse the gods he had denied most of his life. But he was not that man anymore, nor did he want to be.

“I’m so sorry, Sandor,” Sansa whispered now through her tears. “I don’t know why her birthing happened too soon.”

“Don’t you say you’re sorry,” Sandor ordered her. “You have given me another daughter, little bird: another dog-and-wolf pup. She’ll fight…if she’s anything like her mother.” He kissed her now where her auburn hair stuck to her temple.

Sand looked down at the too-small babe again and she tightened her arms around the small, blanketed bundle of stillness and closed her eyes. “I pray you are right, Sandor; I pray that she will fight and live. Please,” she pleaded openly though to no person or gods in particular, “oh, please.”

Sandor understood. She was appealing to anyone or anything that would help.

He wished he knew what to do, or say, to assuage his wife’s pain and breathe more strength into their tiny little daughter. Instead he held the little bird tighter, and hoped it would be enough.

…….

The next morning dawned just as cold as the last, but the stables were oddly warm after the chill of the castle entrance and the yard. Sandor was not surprised though, he was used to the heat generated by the bodies of horses and the closeness caused by the smell of their dung. Soon it would be cleared away again by the stable boys to be carted out to the fields to fertilize crops. Meanwhile mounts nickered and shuffled as he made his way past the many tidy stalls to the end and looked into the last one.

_Of course; where else would she be._

“Puppy dog?” he called somberly to the lithe, cloaked figure huddled on a hay bale in the corner. “Catya, come out now.”

His daughter turned her face to him and just as quickly hid it again, but not before he’d had seen her big, tear-filled eyes looking helplessly at him. He sighed and opened the latch on the stall and slipped in. Her dark mare Lady lifted her head from het oats. Sired by his long-dead warhorse Stranger, Lady had been named for her mother Sansa’s also long-dead direwolf. Recognizing him, the mare flicked her tail and went back to eating.

“Come here, girl,” he rasped gently to his daughter as he sat next to her on the hay. He pulled her to him.

Catya turned to him and huddled close to her father, with her arms reaching around his waist and her head buried in his chest.

“Why, Papa…why did she have to die? It’s not fair. P-poor Mama,” she stuttered.

Sandor patted her shoulder now. “Aye, Puppy Dog, your mother is heartbroken.” He said nothing of himself.

“She- she wanted a girl, didn’t she?”

Sandor sighed. ‘I expect we had both wished for another girl; hadn’t you wanted a sister?”

Catya nodded against his tunic. “I- I guess so. I love my brothers-“

“I know you do, Catya; it’s alright for you to want what you don’t have; just don’t let it mean everything to you. We don’t always get what we want, my girl; best learn to live with that or you’ll be sore unhappy in life.”

“But…but why, Papa?” she whispered. “Mama wasn’t sick, was she?”

“No; least the maester says not,” he stroked her hair on top of her head. The rest, a glossy dark fall when loose, was bound in a long braid. Sandor knew if he looked at the end, he would find a ribbon that matched her gown. She was as much Sansa’s daughter as his. “But sometimes a whelp’s born too soon, and is not strong enough,” he explained now. “The…your sister, Puppy Dog, was too small and weak to draw breath anymore.”

He heard her take a deep breath. “That’s not right,” she whispered hotly.

“Happens to animals as well: every litter has a runt and sometimes it don’t live; or sometimes it’s the mother that can’t survive the birthing. There’s weak and strong in all that lives, girl. _Valar morghulis_ is what folks say in the East; doubtless you’ve heard your aunt Arya, the queen, say it too _. All men must die._ I know this is your first time facing death, Puppy Dog; but we all die in the end; the weak just…sooner,” he finished authoritatively. Sandor knew all about the weak and the strong, he knew that it was the way of the world: it had kept him alive while, on the inside, his bitterness at the knowledge had nearly killed him. “Don’t mean you have to like it, girl; but it happens even if you don’t.”

“Was I stronger, Papa?” she asked without looking up at him.

Sandor hesitated, He knew Catya had been told that she been born early; when in fact he and Sansa had married late. Sansa had carried their firstborn when they’d wed in the godswood and had wanted no taint of bastardy on their daughter, for she knew how bastards, particularly girl bastards, were treated. Still, Sandor hedged at lying: he never lied, even to spare people’s feelings but he’d hack off his own sword hand before he’d hurt his girl.

“You were strong,” he answered simply. “You all were,” he added because it was true.

“What will happen now?” she asked him, and he understood.

“She’ll go to the crypts, with the rest of your mother’s family,” he rasped.

“Will she have a name? Mama said that you both wanted me to have a Northern name; but I remember she once told me that when she was a young, she thought to name a daughter Jonquil.”

Sandor sighed again. “And so she did,” he replied quietly.

“She thought you might not like it…a name from a song…”

Sandor thought a moment. “I’ve never had no use for songs, Puppy Dog; but I’d give your mother whatever she wanted,” he replied firmly and he meant it.

Catya gave another heartfelt sob and so Sandor closed his eyes and waited before speaking again.

“Look at me now, girl,” he asked her gently. “This is important.”

His daughter leaned away and sat up straighter; she wiped her eyes before looking up. Sandor took her face in his great big hands and looked at her steadily. She was nigh two-and-ten; the same age he had been when he killed his first man, he remembered. But Catya had been given a better life than he had; all his children had, for which he was truly grateful. Though he may not admit it, or even realize it, the thought of children had frightened Sandor Clegane. The world he had known was a harsh and deadly place; and even family provided no safety or refuge. Thank the gods his wife had known a better life as a child of Winterfell, and had known how to provide that safe and loving shelter for their family. He had needed to watch and learn and in time to trust himself. He had loved his dog-and-wolf pups, every one of them; but even he realized that Catya was special to him.

Sandor was fairly certain that his daughter had not yet flowered; at least Sansa had not told him so. But she had grown into more of a woman, he saw that now. She had grown taller, though not as tall as her mother; and she had her pretty features: full lips, straight nose and luminous eyes. His daughter had grey eyes; not her mother’s Tully blue, but his family’s grey, and dark hair. All of his sons had inherited Sansa’s blue eyes and various shades of her auburn hair. Only Catya had his Clegane colouring, or mayhaps she had it from her grandfather Eddard Stark. But when he looked at her, he saw something of himself, and of his own sister; and it had made them closer: a Papa Dog and his Puppy Dog.

“Catya…you are, and you always have been, all the daughter I could ever want. Aye, we wanted your sister, but not because we didn’t have all we could ever hope for in _you_ ,” his voice became gruff as he saw her tear up again but he took her hands in his and continued. “You and I have always have always been kindred, girl; but now I need you to be close to your mother, and to comfort her.”

She looked at him curiously, her grief momentarily forgotten. “Of course I will, Papa.”

“Her…her heart’s broke, you see,” he tried to explain hoarsely, “and she keeps it from me. Might be…it might be she’ll talk to you…” His voice caught as he choked back a sob of his own, his great shoulders shook with the effort of restraining himself. Finally he dropped his head in his hands and wept.

Catya recoiled and stared in big-eyed shock at the sight of her fierce father crying before she softened and put her slender arms around him. She had to kneel on the hay bale to reach around him completely.

“Oh, Papa Dog…my poor Papa. It will be alright,” she rocked and soothed him now, as she sometimes did for her baby brothers. “I’ll comfort Mama…and you too. I love you, Papa. I’m sorry we’ve lost Jonquil,” she whispered and he was racked by another sob. “I’m so very sorry, Papa…”

 


	2. Chapter 2

That evening, Sandor stood in the covered walkway overlooking the yard of Winterfell. It had been a long and wearying day, it had started when he had to tell his children that their baby sister was lost and to speak to the servants in the hall and consult with the maester and carpenters and masons about a burial in the crypt beneath Winterfell. Had he not been exhausted from accepting everyone’s condolences, he might have been tempted to go to the winter town for ales; but he wanted to be left alone now.

Since he no longer indulged in drinking himself senseless, Sandor was instead drawn to this spot when he felt overburdened or simply inclined to brood. It was the same yard he had entered on horseback when he first travelled to Winterfell with the then-royal family as Prince Joffrey’s loyal sworn shield: his dog, the boy had called him and Sandor never objected or even minded…until Joffrey had called him that in front of the little bird.

_And you, dog, away with you, you’re scaring my betrothed._

Sansa had not truly learned fear yet, and the one to teach her would be the very prince she had believed would be her true love, like from a song. First she’d see her beloved direwolf killed, then her father: beheaded as she watched in terror from the steps the Sept of Baelor. Then the rotten shit of a bastard boy had taken her up to the walls of the Red Keep were her father’s head had been mounted on a spike. When the little bird had learned what kind of monster was behind her prince’s pretty face, she learned how little a pretty face was worth.

But that she should have come to love _him_ , well, that still confounded him beyond everything he could have imagined. Sandor Clegane: second son of a minor house, a burned and scarred warrior, a loyal dog, sworn shield to the Lannisters, deserter, drifter, almost a dead man, penitent…not a man worthy of the heart and hand of Lord Eddard Stark’s eldest and loveliest daughter, and yet he had somehow won both, and her, and had become her lord and husband and father to their children. Gods, how she had wanted a family of her own; even at the risk of her own life. She likely had not imagined that she would lose a child’s life.

Sandor closed his eyes tightly and sighed in pain.

_Pull yourself together, dog; you needs be strong now…for her, and for all of them._

“Clegane,” came a familiar smokey voice from one side of the walkway.

Sandor knew it was his wife’s great-uncle, Brynden Tully, called the Blackfish; but he did not turn to look, nor did he greet him.

The man approached him anyway. “Clegane, I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sorry that I was not here for you and Sansa when it happened-“

“How are things at the Wall then?” Sandor interrupted him.

He heard the Blackfish’s boots on the planked wooden floor come closer until he stood beside him.

“Jon and Bran are both well…though if you will permit, I would like to send a raven and tell them of the sad news. They will want to know about their sister and her family.”

Sandor nodded and replied gruffly. “Aye, go on and send word then.”

The Blackfish nodded sympathetically now. “Is she resting?’

“She was.”

“Then I won’t disturb her tonight. And the children?”

“They dined in the solar with the nurse and a maid. Rickon and his family ate in the hall.”

“I would like to see them. Will you come with me?”

“To see Rickon?” Sandor looked at him with impatience.

“To see your children,” the Blackfish clarified calmly.

Sandor hesitated; he did not want to risk falling apart again as he had with Catya in the stables. The pups needed at least one parent to be strong for them.. “No,” he rapsed, “you go ahead. You’ve a way with children,” he noted grudgingly.

The older knight snorted derisively. “Do you know why that is?” he asked Sandor.

“Might be because you never had any,” Sandor jeered. “Easy to be patient when you can come and go as you please with them.”

The Blackfish gave a wry smile. “That may very well be a part of it; but you’re patient with them too, Clegane. I’ve seen it many times myself. No, my brother’s children came to me because I made time for them. Hoster was busy as Lord of Riverrun and the Riverlands, true enough; but he spent even less time with them when…when Minisa passed. Whether it was their grief or his own that he could not abide, I’ve never known. He left them alone when they needed him most, and so they concluded they were not important, or at least not as important as his duties. Someone needed to remind them the right order of the Tully words: _Family. Duty. Honor._ ”

Sandor stared at him, momentarily silent. “Bloody hells, man: it’s not been a day yet and you liken it to abandonment, do you? I’ve spoken to them…well, Benjen don’t understand, and I just told Brynden that his mother needed to rest.”

“Does he understand that?

Sandor looked down. “Not really. Kept up his asking for her,” he mumbled, “and Benjen just pouts and watches for her: he’s nigh two, still a babe.”

“The young ones miss their mother right now. Not understanding often means they’re frightened. And your older children: this is their first brush with death, with loss. You’re the best person to reassure them, Clegane: you’re their father.”

Sandor sighed. “I know.” He turned and looked back the old man. He had the same Tully blue eyes as his wife but his were circled with fine lines from harsh weather and age; and though they were filled with experience and wisdom and a sad sort of kindness, they could turn as cold blue as steel or ice if you crossed him. _Family. Duty. Honor._ Those were his family’s words and he lived by them, with the exception of having refused to marry the girl his own brother chose for him. But once Sandor had married Sansa, the Blackfish had stood by him and accepted him, and he was grateful for that…even if he did not always let on. “Let’s go then.”

The Blackfish patted him on the back, a gesture both of camaraderie and comfort. Sandor realized that he was grateful for that too.

…….

After the youngest children, Brynden and Benjen were put to bed, Sandor and the Blackfish walked back to the solar but once they reached the hallway leading to Sansa and Sandor’s bedchamber Sandor stopped and looked down the hall.

“I think I would sit with her a while,” he rasped somberly. “Will you come with me?”

The Blackfish nodded once. “If she would see me; I’ll understand if she doesn’t wish to have company yet.”

As they were about to turn, Ned appeared from the hallway as well.

“Father, I- I would like to see Mother with you. As- as your eldest son it is my duty to assist you at this time,” he struggled to say. “I will be a lord as well one day,” he added with a lifting of his chin.

“Aye, one day, Ned; but you’re still a boy now,” Sandor countered gruffly.

“You are kind and dutiful to want to help, Ned,” the Blackfish interceded when he saw the boy’s face fall in reaction to his father’s curt dismissal. “Mayhaps you can accompany your father to the stonemasons on the morrow. They are like to be finished their work by then; and I’m sure your father would appreciate the assistance.”

Ned looked to his father who nodded wearily but patiently in agreement.

“Will you…can I go to see Mother with you now?” Ned asked again. “I’m her eldest son and  should offer her comfort and help,” he lifted his chin again, trying to look confident.

Sandor glanced at the Blackfish, who was looking at Ned. “Very well,” he rasped, “but if she’s sleeping or tired it will have to wait.”

“Yes, Father,” the boy replied easily now.

Sandor entered the darkened room, lit only by the hearth fire and a single candle on a table against the far wall. Sansa sat up in bed, resting against a bolster and pillows with a heavy shawl wrapped around her shoulders and her arms wrapped around herself tightly. She stared vacantly into the middle distance: her eyes were reddened from tears and her face was pale and drawn from grief and the effort of childbirth.

“Little bird,” Sandor rasped gently as he sat next to her. “I’ve brought your great-uncle to see you, and Ned as well, but if you are too tired-“

Ned stared at his mother with big eyes. She was always so beautiful and though she was gentle, she had always seemed strong. But now she was weak and worn and frail-looking. He gulped down his apprehension and stepped forward now.

“I- I wished to see you, Mother; and tell you I am sorry for our baby sister. I’ll help you…and Father…and all will be well soon, just as it was before,” he tried to smile and sound encouraging.

Sansa bit her lip and whispered faintly. “Thank you, Ned.” She looked at him now with infinite sadness. “You’re a good boy,” she told him shakily in her weak voice.

Ned tried again. “I know,” he thought suddenly, “I can tell cook to make lemon cakes-“

“That’s very thoughtful, Ned,” interrupted the Blackfish smoothly, “but I think your mother needs time with your father.” He leaned in towards Sansa momentarily. “I will come see you again, child. Rest now,” he murmured in his smokey voice, gentle and reassuring, and Sansa pursed her lips together and nodded vaguely with her eyes shut.

“I’ll stay with you, little bird,” Sandor whispered hoarsely, and Sansa nodded again and kept her eyes closed.

Brynden Tully shut the door quietly behind him and Ned but paused momentarily and unconsciously shook his head.

“Will Mother be well soon?” Ned asked warily.

The Blackfish turned his head to look at him. The boy still had big eyes and an expression of uncertainty.

“She’ll be well in time, Ned. Your mother is very strong; she loves her children…all of you. You know that.”

“Yes, Ser,” Ned answered dutifully and the Blackfish saw that the boy wanted to be brave but didn’t quite feel it. Not wishing for the boy to doubt himself , he spoke to him as a young man.

“You were kind to your mother, Ned; she’s just not ready for company. Grief hits people hard, especially mothers for their children. Don’t let how she is now change how you feel about her, or how you think she feels about you.”

He paused and let his words take effect though the boy showed little sign of having heard him much less taken his counsel to heart. He sighed inwardly.

“You’re not accustomed to death; not as yet, though you will learn in time if you must lead men into battle or decide their fates under the laws when you are a lord,” he warned him somberly. “Your mother’s father took his sons out with him when he needed to mete justice, so they would learn just what it  meant to face death. Now walk back to the solar with me, Ned: I’d like to hear about your training and lessons. You must have learned a lot since I last saw you…and you look bigger and stronger too.”

Ned shuffled his feet a moment, and looked back at his parents’ chamber door before letting the older knight put his hand on his shoulder and guide him towards the solar.

…….

Sansa still sat with her eyes closed and her arms wrapped tightly around herself. Sandor approached the side of the bed and sat down gently.

“Our boy means well, little bird,” he rasped, “but he is a boy.”

There was a paused before Sansa spoke.

“Jonquil,” she whispered hoarsely without opening her eyes. “Where…where have they taken her?”

Sandor wanted to reach for her hand but they were tucked tightly around her body. He placed a large hand on her leg, on top of the heavy furs that covered their bed, and gave a firm, reassuring squeeze.

“In the sept, little bird,” he rasped quietly, “beneath the Mother’s altar. The carpenters did their work quickly, and well. There’s people there all the time, keeping vigil and minding the burning candles. The maester has seen to it.” Though those in the North worshiped the Old Gods, Sansa had seen that the sept in Winterfell was rebuilt in memory of her own mother.

Sansa put her hand to her lips suddenly, to stifle a sob; but she shuddered and tears leaked from between her lashes. Sandor leaned in and put his large, warm hands on her shoulders.

“I’ll take you to her, little bird,” he promised with all the fervor he had felt when he had once promised to kill anyone who would hurt her. She was hurting now, and he did not know how to protect her. “I’ll fetch your cloak, and I’ll carry you there.”

She looked at him now, big blue eyes despairingly sad. “Oh, Sandor: they’ll put my sweet baby in the crypt where it’s dark and cold.”

She turned her face away suddenly and he saw her clamp her mouth shut to stop herself from sobbing. She clutched herself even tighter, nearly doubling over, and Sandor wished that she would cling to him and let him comfort her. He reached out to caress her auburn hair but stopped himself.

“It’s alright, little bird,” he rasped instead. “It will be alright-“

The maester came in then, looking harried and carrying a small pewter cup in his hand.

“Can you help her?” Sandor asked with gruff concern.

“My lady,” the man soothed her, “I beg you, drink of this. It will help calm you.”

Sansa tried feebly to turn her head away but the maester approached her and deftly held her head and brought the cup to her lips. “Drink, my lady.”

Sansa drank obediently though she wrinkled her nose and looked reproachfully at him.

“Sweetsleep,” she accused thickly.

“Aye, my lady, only the slightest drop to ease your sleep,” he admitted smoothly. “You needs rest and not upset yourself too much. Sleep now, my lady, I pray you.”

Sansa’s eyelids quickly grew heavy, and Sandor eased her back gently against the bolster and finally reached now to brush her hair back from her forehead.

“Rest, little bird,” he murmured. “I’ll take you to the sept in the morning.”

Sansa didn’t reply; the sweetsleep had already taken her. Sandor smoothed her hair again before turning to the maester.

“She was overcome with grief and tried to stop it,” Sandor felt he should explain.

“Naturally, my lord,” the maester replied. “Lady Clegane also tried very hard to control her grief when…when your child was taken away. I feared that she may have a stronger reaction in time and so readied the draught if it were needed.” The man paused and bowed his head. “Is there aught I may do for you, my lord? Might I offer you something to ease your sleep, or settle your stomach perhaps?”

“I’ve not had any wine,” Sandor countered sharply.

“Nor much to eat,” the man continued despite Sandor’s defensiveness. “Forgive me, my lord, but the servants do talk and I am responsible for the health and well-being of all at Winterfell. I know well that you will look to your family at this time; however you needs look to yourself as well.”

“Thank you, maester,” Sandor rasped, his eyes still on Sansa as she slept. “There is much to do,” he added simply, “and we have other children.”

The maester nodded kindly. “Very well, my lord. Please know that I am at your disposal at any time.” He hesitated slightly. “I should tell you, my lord, that Lady Clegane may not wake for some time. I have given her only the mildest dose of sweetsleep naturally; however you likely may not be able to keep your promise to take her to the sept on the morrow. Mayhaps…mayhaps her grief would be eased if she did not needs look upon the small coffin, and I fear that her already fragile state would be taxed by a trip down into the crypts. My lord, I-“

“You’re telling me to have the babe buried and out of her sight before she wakes, maester?” Sandor questioned harshly.

The man folded his hands together before him and took a breath for courage. “My lord, I believe it would serve the best interest of my lady’s health not to needs grieve so…so demonstrably. Women will wear themselves out with such unrestrained emotions,” he spoke confidentially.

“My lady saw her own father  executed; then was forced to look upon his head on a spike. She survived being a hostage of the Lannisters, a forced marriage to the Imp, the deaths of her mother and brother at the Red Wedding and the manipulations of Littlefinger before finding her way back North to wage war, face down the Dragon Queen and defeat the Others,” he intoned brusquely. “She is stronger than anyone I have ever known.”

“As you wish, my lord. Please believe I only wished to spare her any more grief,” he explained humbly.

Sandor looked back to Sansa, and remembered a time many years ago: the little bird after the execution of her father. The young king Joffrey had brought Sandor and Meryn Trant with him to drag her out of bed and force her to attend him at court. She had not been permitted to grieve then…

_Buggering hells: the maester is no Joffrey, and neither am I. She’s not being prevented from grieving, only from suffering from it too much._

Sandor had not been permitted to grieve for his sister, nor had time to grieve for his father when he fled Clegane’s Keep. Had it made him stronger? Might be it did; but Sansa was not a child on her own in the world, nor anymore. She did not need to suffer from more grief; and he had promised to protect her.

He squeezed her hand now. He only wanted what was best for the little bird.

_I’ll keep you safe._

“If that is your counsel, maester,” he rasped resignedly.

The maester bowed his head and opened his hands. “Very well, my lord. Shall I leave you?”

“Aye,” Sandor rasped firmly. “I’ll stay with her now. Have them send for me early tomorrow…and the Blackfish as well. Have them wake my daughter and eldest sons too.” He turned to face the maester and nodded decisively. “We’ll have it done before she wakes again.”

When the man left, Sandor turned back to Sansa and held her hand in both of his.

“Gods, old and new, let it be the right thing…for her. I want my lady to be well again.”

He kissed her hand now. There would be more babes: she was still young and he was still strong but…

He closed his eyes and saw the weak, small girl she had held so tightly and willed to live and felt his heart break all over again. He had wanted the pup, as much as Sansa had. Their older children had come into the world in winter when their lives and circumstances were more uncertain, and he had fretted for their survival too much to rejoice in their births. But now in the peaceful and prosperous North, they were secure and happy. Rickon was Lord Stark and ruled as Warden in his own right; he had taken a  wife and fathered sons. Sansa and Sandor could enjoy their own family and take time for each other as they had once could not. They walked hand in hand through the winter town with their children to the market and shops. They rode out together when the weather was fine or sat with their children in the solar watching them play or hearing them recite their lessons. And when they retired to their chamber, they left the shutters unlatched on summer nights to let the fresh air blow in as they clung to each other under the furs.

Sandor closed his eyes and sighed faintly to remember the wonderful feel of her fuller breasts and bottom now that they had abundant food to eat. Her skin and hair were soft and fragrant, just like the milder summer air that blew across the steppes around Winterfell and brought the smell of wildflowers from the wolfswood. He would sometimes carry them back beneath his cloak when he rode out on patrols, and leave bunches of them on her dressing table or the bolster of their bed. She would wait for him naked under the furs with the loveliest of the blooms in her hand.

Sansa had blushed like a maiden to tell him she was with child again: _a girl and two boys in winter and now two boys and a girl in summer,_ she had whispered to him one night; and she had bloomed like a fresh rose in the glass garden even as her eyes glowed sharp like a direwolf’s.

_Aye: stronger than anyone I know. You’re a wolf, girl, and you’ll be strong again._

Meanwhile he would see to their child’s burial…poor, weak little pup.

Sandor caught his breath sharply, and raised Sansa’s hand to kiss again.

There would be time to mourn later, he told himself; now, he needed to be strong for her, until she was well again.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Despite sitting up most of the last several nights next to Sansa as she slept fitfully or gazed sadly into emptiness in the dim of their silent chamber, Sandor went to the yard in the morning to train the garrison: it was his responsibility as their commander and as Lord Clegane. He chose to oversee their battles rather than spar himself. He knew that his fatigue would prevent him from fighting at his most skillful; or possibly his rage at his own frustration would make him kill someone. It would not do for the commander of the garrison to set either a sloppy or murderous example for the soldiers. Afterward he broke fast in the hall as he always did with his men but he largely ignored their talk and jests, as he had these last days. He ate methodically without tasting anything and then rose and left. The soldiers bowed their heads and murmured _m’lord_ as he passed but he ignored them too.

As he reached the top of the stairs leading to his chamber, he saw young Robb sitting on the last step with his hands gripped together in his lap. Sandor stopped and stood over him.

“What are you doing there, little man? You should be readying for your training in the yard.”

His son looked up at him with big Tully blue eyes: Sansa’s eyes. The boy had her colouring more than any of their other children and was said to resemble his namesake, the King in the North. He was a favourite among the people of Winterfell and the winter town because of his happy nature; but today he did not look happy. Instead of his usual toothy smile, his mouth worked to keep from pursing up and his brow furrowed together to ward off a look of fear and possible tears.

“Papa…is Mama going to _die_?” he asked in a hushed voice.

Sandor was taken aback. “No, Robb. No.” he rasped emphatically, too stunned by his son’s question to be gruff with him. “I told you your mother will be well; she just needs time. Why would you think- I’ll never lie to you, boy, so don’t fear now.”

He rubbed his eye with his small fist and swallowed hard. “But Mama almost died once before….when _I_ was born,” he ventured sadly.

Sandor’s own heavy brow furrowed in anger now. _Bloody servants._ “Who told you that?” he demanded sharply. “Why I’ll-“ He stopped when he saw his son’s eyes fill with tears. He sighed and bent and lowered himself to sit behind him on the stone step. His long legs in their tall boots stretched out before him.

“Look at me, Robb,” he rasped gently now, “I said I’ll never lie to you and I won’t…but that don’t mean I tell you everything either, especially things you aren’t old enough to understand. But you know now so I’ll try to explain: yes, your mother had a hard time bringing you into the world but it weren’t your fault, do you hear me? She would be the first to say so; fact is she did say that, to me, to everyone.” He put his great big hand on his son’s shoulder now. “Do you remember how she rubbed her big belly and sang to it these past moons? She did the same when she carried you. Your mother wanted you, wanted to bring you into the world as her own babe. She loves you fierce, boy…and so do I; so you never let anyone say you hurt your mother because she’d die for you, for all of you. Never forget that.”

Robb frowned again despite his father’s words. “But she wanted the baby that died too,” he concluded unhappily.

Sandor squeezed his shoulder. “Aye, son: she did.”

Robb nodded and tears coursed down his cheeks. “She must be very sad. I wish I could help her.”

Sandor remembered Sansa’s sad resignation that their pup had been buried in the crypt while she slept. He would have preferred tears or even recriminations: anything but her dull acceptance and distant expressions and bearing. He pulled his son close to him now. “So do I,” he choked out. “We just needs let her rest and get stronger, and try to comfort her when she’s ready. Be a good lad for her then, will you?”

“I will, Papa,” he sniffled.

“Dry your eyes; go find your friend Willam and join the other boys for training now,” Sandor prompted him gently.

Robb wiped his eyes on his sleeve and nodded obediently. “Yes, Papa. Thank you, Papa.”

Sandor let his son go so as to push himself up from the stone step, but then he impulsively bent over to kiss his son’s auburn head.

“I’d kill and die for you too, boy,” he rasped.

Robb turned moist Tully-blue eyes up to his fierce father and, for the first time in many days, showed a tentative smile.

…….

It wasn’t the first time that Sandor had let the Blackfish train the younger boys: the old knight had a way with children and Sandor thought it did them good to have different expectations and experiences from time to time, even letting Jon take over once on a visit to Winterfell. Sandor had trained under different masters-at-arms in his father’s keep, then at Casterly Rock and in King’s Landing, and though his advantages had always been his size and ferocity, it had never hurt to learn from different men and to fight against new adversaries. He’d never been in a battle where they set out to pair you off with an equal.

He rounded the stairs to the next floor and stopped short when he heard singing.

But he knew just as quickly that it was not her; it was Catya, who sang as well as her mother, but Sansa’s voice, her singing voice was still the sweetest sound in the world to him.

_Sing, little bird. Sing for your little life._

He leaned against the wall and banged his head on the hard stone there. How could he have ever thought to hurt her, to take her by force and end her life? Rage, fear, drink, and the knowledge that he was throwing his own life away had made him deadly dangerous. Her helplessness had made him want to end her life quickly without any more suffering: but it was her fear of him and her refusal to look at him had made him near mad with jealousy and hate for everything he would never have.

And there in the queer green-tinged darkness she had sang to him: _Gentle Mother, font of mercy…_

She had undone him with a song, a wish for mercy and gentleness and kindness: for everything she was to him now, and to their children.

He remembered what he had told Robb, about how Sansa had rubbed her swollen belly and sang sweetly to it. She had glowed with a deep and boundless happiness, as she had with all their children, and he had taken pleasure in watching her smile to herself and hum contentedly as she sat with her needlework in the solar. He had fretted privately so many times when she was with child, fearing for their safety as the wars still raged in the North and an enemy lurked in Winterfell. Later he had feared for her life after Robb had been born when she carried Brynden and then Benjen after nigh five years without quickening. And then this last child…

The little bird loved her children, just like the Mother herself; and there was no mother so gentle and sweet in the whole world in his eyes. She had confided to him that she wished for another girl, and he had let himself be carried along with her happiness and her plans.

He closed his eyes to think of her pain, of the loss he must feel now not to have that child to sing to, to hold and to love. He heaved a great sigh, and shook his head to clear it. He too, had been quietly happy to think they may have another daughter; and he had been happy to see the little bird happy, just as he was wretched to see her grief and his children’s uncertainty. But their mother was grieving, and so it fell to Sandor to be the one to reassure them. He entered the nursery.

Catya was holding her youngest brother Benjen in her lap as she sang. He clung to the sleeve of her gown and leaned into her embrace. Brynden sat on the floor looking up at her. In one hand he held a carved wooden horse and in the other a slice of apple. He dropped both when he saw his father. Benjen also looked up expectantly, and then Sandor saw his eyes were looking past him to the doorway.

 _They’re looking for their mother,_ he knew.

“Hello, Papa,” Catya greeted him with a soft smile.

“Don’t stop your singing because of me, girl; go on,” he rasped.

“Mama?” Benjen asked simply, still watching the door. Sansa and Sandor often visited the nursery together at midday once Sandor was done in the yard and had broken fast with his men in the hall.

“Your Mama is resting now,” he told them.

“Mama sleeps always now,” Brynden observed with a sad, serious face.

Sandor set his mouth grimly. He remembered years ago, when Ned had a fever and cough, how Sansa had stayed with him in the nursery despite the presence of his nurse and other servants. She had still been acting warden then, and Sandor worried that she was taking on too much and wearing herself out.

“Seven hells, little bird, haven’t you enough to do? Let the nurse look to him; that’s her duty.”

Sansa had looked down at her sick son before explaining.

“We had nurses and then Septa Mordane when I was a girl; but whenever I was sick or unhappy, I always wanted my mother, Sandor,” she told him.

Sandor had lost his mother when very young and had many times as a boy wondered if his life would have been different if she had lived, if Gregor would have been protected by their father when he’d burned Sandor. He had said no more then and let Sansa tend their son without further reproach. When he had found time, he had sat with her in the nursery, and it had become their habit.

He sat on the bench now with his daughter and patted the place next to him. “Come here,” he told Brynden.

The boy stood from the floor and came to Sandor who picked him up and sat him down next to him.

“Yes, your mother sleeps a lot because she is hurt; but she will be better. I’ll sit with you now; and if you need me then you ask the nurse to send for me, do you hear?”

Brynden looked at him with dark blue eyes and nodded solemnly.

“Good,” Sandor nodded back.

The nurse returned now with maids carrying linens and dishes with food on trays.

“Time for your midday meal,” Sandor noted. “I’ll stay and eat with you. Catya, have them send up a meal for me, and will you sit with your mother now? I’ll stay here until your brothers are fed and put down for naps.”

Catya stood obediently. “Yes, Papa, I’ll go to Mama now, and I’ll have our meals brought as well.”

Sandor reached for her hand as she turned to leave and held it a moment.

“You’re a good girl, Puppy Dog,” he rasped gently and quietly.

Catya squeezed his hand in return and bend down to kiss his scarred cheek. “I love you, Papa Dog,” she whispered into his burned stub of ear.

Sandor watched her as she walked out of the nursery in measured steps and with her hands clasped before her: the same gentle gestures as her mother. A ghost of a smile twitched at the corner of his mouth.

 _All the daughter I could ever want_ , he thought proudly.

…….

Sansa stirred faintly in her sleep, unknowingly tilting her head to listen for the sounds of crying. Then she opened her eyes with sad resignation. There would not be any crying, not from her babe anyway.

“Mama?” her daughter called from near the window. The light outside was fading fast and there was a tinge of pink lingering in the sky from the sunset over the castle walls.

Sansa turned her head to see Catya sitting in that fading light; she held her needlework in her lap but was not sewing. She rose now to walk to the bed.

Sansa winced as she sat up and her daughter hurried to her.

“Are you unwell, Mama? Shall I fetch the maester?”

“No,” Sansa replied. Osha had helped to bind her breasts to stop her milk but the bandages were tight and her breasts were still heavy. “Thank you, Catya. I will be fine.” She forced herself to sit up now and reached for the embroidered woolen bed-jacket her daughter brought her. When she held out her arms she was once again overwhelmed by loss: her arms felt so terribly empty. She set her mouth grimly. _I’m a wolf._ But Sansa did not feel like a wolf; she felt defeated and sad. She looked forlornly around the chamber.

“What are you making?” she asked Catya to distract herself. Sansa had slept in the same chamber since returning to Winterfell, even before she had married Sandor. There was not a corner or a mark on the wood floor or a scar on the ceiling with which she was not familiar. Her daughter’s work was the only thing of note in the room…besides the missing cradle that had been removed days ago while she slept. That had caused her near as much anguish as when they had taken her lifeless babe from her arms.

Her daughter’s eyes dropped at Sansa’s question and she saw the girl hesitate.

“It- it’s for Papa,” she finally replied, averting her eyes.

Sansa knew that Sandor and Catya were close but her daughter did not usually keep secrets from her.

“Will you not show me, Catya?” she asked quietly.

“I…it’s…Papa…Mama, I wanted to make him something to remember…to remember baby Jonquil,” she wrung her hands in anxiousness, fearful that she would upset her mother.

“Oh. May I see it?” Sansa asked dully.

Catya hesitated only briefly before picking it up and handing her needlework to her mother.

“The border is unfinished,” she told Sansa awkwardly.

Sansa held it up to see and caught her breath sharply. The square of fine linen had been embroidered with a black dog from Sandor’s House Clegane sigil and well as the grey wolf of Sansa’s House Stark. There were five pups trailing: a black dog with a grey wolf’s tail; the next four were grey wolves with black paws and dogs’ tails. The last two were small as pups. All four of Sansa’s sons had her Tully colouring, with auburn hair and blue eyes.

“Dog-and-wolf pups,” Sansa murmured the term Sandor often used to describe their children.

But the last was not a pup. The last was a small yellow jonquil, firmly planted in the ground by a green stem: never to run and play with the others, or follow the dog and direwolf.

Sansa ran her fingertip gently over the finely stitched flower as her eyes blurred from tears.

“It’s beautiful, my Catya,” she barely whispered.

“You taught me well, Mama,” her daughter answered, sniffling. “I love to ride with Papa, and learn to hunt with a bow,” she dropped her eyes demurely, “but I have always wanted to be a lady too, just like you are, Mama. Papa says you are the gentlest lady in all the world.”

Sansa smiled faintly through her tears. “Did he truly tell you that?”

“He did: the gentlest and the strongest, he said. He says that true lady is both; just as a true lord is strong and kind, like Grandpapa Eddard.”

While it pleased Sansa that her children knew of their grandfather; it still pained her that her parents had not lived to know her children, or Arya’s or Rickon’s. Her brother Robb had been murdered before he could father children with his young queen; and Jon and Bran had joined the Night’s Watch.

“My father should have grown old, surrounded by his children and his grandchildren. My mother as well, but…my mother-“

_My mother became a murderous shade intent on avenging her family; may the gods give her sweet rest now._

Doubtless her older children had heard stories by now, just as they had heard their father called ‘Hound’ by some Northerners who still resented his presence in the North, as well as his place in Winterfell and in the bed of Lord Eddard’s daughter.  “Often women do not live as long as men; at least not in times of peace,” she said instead.

Catya looked down and then back to her mother. “Because…because of childbearing?”

Sansa shut her eyes and when she opened them she turned her head to her daughter. “Catya, you are of an age now to understand such matters. Osha and I have explained to you what will happen when you flower, and what it means,” she began.

“It means that I will be able to bear children,” Catya replied, pinking from embarrassment.

“Yes, though it is better to wait. Twelve or thirteen can be very young to marry and-“ she broke off shortly, reminded of the unwanted marriage forced on her by the royal Lannister family when she was a moon’s turn short of her thirteenth nameday. She had been fortunate that her then-husband had not forced himself on her, as was his right. Tyrion Lannister had vowed to wait for her but instead she had escaped and, years later, she was relieved to have their miserable union invalidated.

“Catya,” she reassured her daughter now, “we will never force you to marry against your will. Marriage and motherhood, well: these are wonderful things, my Catya, but they are not always easy, even when it is what you want, even when it is with a man you truly love. There is joy, to be certain; but there is also pain…and tears, as you have doubtless observed. A woman’s life can be full of grief and tears,” she stopped herself now and shook her head. “Forgive me: I do not mean to discourage you. Love…love and family are worth everything: that is why the losses are sometimes so very hard,” she finished hoarsely as her tears filled her eyes again.

“Papa shed tears too, Mama. Jonquil was his daughter too, and he cried for her…and for you, Mama. He hates to see you hurting,” Catya told her quietly.

Sansa was quiet a moment. “When…when did your Papa cry, Catya: in the crypt?”

Catya shook her head. “No, Mama, in the stable the morning…the morning Jonquil…He came to find me, to ask me to comfort you. He said your heart was broken,” she lowered her eyes sadly, “but his was too.”

“Oh…” Sansa exclaimed softly. “Your poor Papa. Thank you, Catya, for being kind to him; I fear…I fear that I have given little thought to aught but how I must have disappointed him.”

Catya put her hand over her mother’s. “How have you disappointed him, Mama? It’s not your fault that Jonquil…He does not blame you, Mama. He explained to me that some are strong and some are not and that is the way of the world, whether we should like it or not. Poor Jonquil was not strong, Mama.”

Sansa sniffled. “Your father learned very early of the way of the world,” she murmured sadly.

“Because of the Mountain,” Catya ventured. “I know what he did, Mama; I guessed when I was young. I promised Papa that I would keep it our secret but…Mama, I know that you do not blame Papa for what happened to him. You cannot think that he would blame you for- for baby Jonquil. Please, Mama.”

Sansa lowered her eyes sadly. “I realize now that your father would never blame me but-“

“What is it, Mama?”

“Catya, you know about the Mountain and how unhappy your father once was without any true family; and so my greatest happiness had been giving him a family of his own. He loves you all so much; and he is very close to you, my sweetling,” she took her daughter’s hand. “I- I simply want him to be happy, as happy as I can make him and- and instead I have given him more grief…I have failed him-“

“No! Mama, no! You have not failed Papa…or me, or…or anyone…ever.”

Sansa smiled gently. “You are very sweet to say so, Catya.”

“I know so, Mama; and so does Papa. I swear he does,” she implored her mother. “Please do not keep yourself from him, Mama: he loves you and would give you anything, but it hurts him, Mama.”

Sansa blinked, and looked at her daughter in astonishment.

Keep herself from Sandor? As though she could, she almost laughed out loud this time. Sansa had loved him with all her heart from the moment she had found him again, when he had pledged to bring her home, to the North and Winterfell, and to keep her safe. She had wisely kept it to herself though, believing his time on the Quiet Isle with the Brown Brothers of the faith had tempered his rage and also his crude looks and comments, the looks that once told her she was a woman and not a girl. But Sandor had once compared her to a pretty little talking bird in a cage, and made her feel stupid. She did not know if he shared her feelings, if he truly ever had, and she put her trust in him as her sworn shield and vowed never to make him feel any more obligated to her.

But he had loved her, or at least wanted her. They were soon lovers in the truest sense: Sansa gave herself to him in a small cottage where they had sheltered on their way North. But even then he had sworn to end their affair once they reached Winterfell: she was high-born, he reasoned, and he was not; nor was he like to be welcomed or wanted by her people. His duty was to protect her and he could not put her danger by letting men think she was free with herself, especially with a man with his reputation. He had been the Hound; and to most people he still was.

Sansa had reluctantly agreed; after all, how could a mere girl, high-born or not, control a man like Sandor Clegane. But she was too weak, or her love had been too strong: she needed him, wanted him and did not shy to tell him so whenever they were alone. He had resisted but not for very long: she had loved him and then failed him by getting with child against his wishes. Fearful that she would drive him away, she had instead been relieved and overjoyed when Sandor insisted that they marry, despite not believing himself worthy of her or his place at Winterfell.

Sansa had been so grateful that she had promised herself that she would never fail him again, that she would make him so terribly happy that he would never again have cause not to trust her, that he would never regret marrying her. When she saw how he loved their children, she had thanked the old gods to have brought him the happiness of a family of his own, and resolved to give him many children so that he would see he was a good father, and a good husband and a good man; she wanted him never to doubt that she loved only him and wanted only him and that he was worthy of their love and his life in the North.

Remembering it all now, Sansa laughed a short mirthless laugh; then covered her mouth with her hand.

Catya looked at her, speechless; and so Sansa explained.

“No, Catya, I do not laugh at your father’s pain; I laugh at myself for being a fool. You see, your father has always held himself distant from me when he believed that he…that he was somehow not worthy of me and my love because he was not high-born, nor a knight, nor terribly honourable at one time in his life; at least not the kind of honour we know from songs.” She wiped a lone tear away. “And now I realize that I have done the same to him.  I have kept myself distant because I have felt unworthy, a failure; and you have helped me to see that it has hurt him as much as his distance had once hurt me.”

She leaned forward and took her daughter’s face in her hands gently.

“Oh, my Catya, you are already the lady you wish to be: strong and kind and gentle. I am so very grateful for your comfort…and your wise counsel.”

Catya blushed: she was flattered but confused. “But...but Mama I only told you the truth.”

“And you must always tell the truth, as your father has taught you. You told me what I needed to hear, Catya,” she told her firmly, “and I am grateful.” Sansa sat up straighter now and she shook her head as though to clear it. “Will you help me dress, or shall we call for my maid?”

“Will you…Mama, are you well enough?”she asked concernedly. “Mayhaps we should ask the maester.”

“I will venture only as far as the solar, if you will help me.”

Catya nodded resolutely. “Yes, Mama. I will help you.”


	4. Chapter 4

“The Stepstones again? Have you boys not tired of hearing about an old man’s battles?”

The Blackfish sat before the hearth holding a cup of wine as Sansa and Sandor’s two eldest sons and their ward, young Willam Tyrell, helped their younger brother Brynden, who was named for his great-great-uncle, to set up his toy soldiers for their re-enactment of the battle story they wished to hear.

The Stepstones had been the final and definitive battle in defeating the last of the Blackfyres. Maelys the Monstrous had been cut down by Ser Barristan Selmy. The Blackfish had fought alongside him that day, and the boys frequently clamored to hear him recount his memories of the battle.

“Please, Uncle Brynden, tell us again so we can show Brynden. He likes to watch us act out battles with his soldiers,” said the eldest, Ned.

The old warrior’s eyes widened then when he looked up and saw Sansa in the doorway.

“Look who is here,” he murmured in his smokey voice.

“Mama!”

Her sons Robb and Brynden ran to her to hug her. Ned stood up but hung back, unsure how to behave. He had been frightened to see Sansa looking so frail and grief-stricken, but because he was the oldest boy and his father’s heir, he had told no one of his fears. Willam, their Tyrell ward, stood behind him; he did not know whether he should follow Ned’s example or Robb’s.

Sansa hugged her sons back and looked to her eldest boy.

“It’s alright, Ned; come here.” She held out her arm to him and he stepped to hug her too.

“I’m glad you’re feeling better, Mother.”

“Thank you, Ned. I’ve missed sitting with all of you in the evening like this. Where is your father?” she asked.

“Seeing to Benjen in the nursery,” her great-uncle the Blackfish replied. “Are you quite certain that you should be up and about?” he questioned solemnly.

“Quite sure, Great-Uncle. Catya helped me here, and will help me back if I should tire.”

Willam Tyrell approached her solemnly now. “My lady, I am happy to see that you are well. Please…please accept my sympathy…” the boy spoke awkwardly but sincerely. Sansa smiled gently to him.

“Thank you, Willam: you are very kind,” she offered. Willam was the younger son of Garlan and Leonette Tyrell of the Reach, and had been their ward for over a year. He was of an age with Robb, and they had become fast friends. Everyone at Winterfell liked him.

“My lord,” Willam bowed his head now as he looked past Sansa.

She turned to see Sandor inside the doorway; he was holding their youngest boy, Benjen, in his arms and the look on his face was inscrutable though he stared at her intensely. She smiled timidly at him. She had asked Catya to help dress her in her deep blue gown to brighten her eyes and hair so she would not look so pale and weary.

“My lord…Sandor,” she began.

“What are you doing out of bed?” he rasped concernedly. “Did the maester say-“

Sansa shook her head. “I will go back to bed if I feel weak but…I wanted to see you all: it has been so many days. May I sit with you?”

“Aye,” Sandor replied as he indicated their usual chairs with a jerk of his chin. His was wide and high with massive armrests padded with leather while Sansa’s was lower, with a curved seat and back and without arms so that she could be free to do her needlework. The Blackfish rose to take her arm and help her sit down slowly. Sandor settled in his chair with a dozing Benjen in his lap.

“Would he not go down to sleep?” Sansa asked now. Benjen was nearly two years old now and had slept well for some time.

Sandor shrugged. “I brought him here after his bath. We’ve been sitting together…all of us…at night.” He shrugged again awkwardly. The boy had fussed most nights without his mother but Sandor would not tell her so.

“That’s nice,” Sansa replied softly. “I was just saying how I have missed this…being together: all of us.”

Sandor nodded. “They missed you too; but they knew you needed to rest,” he told her gruffly.

Sansa looked over to see her great-uncle recounting battle stories to her sons and ward while they acted them out with their carved figures. The room glowed from the firelight and candles and Sansa looked upon every face, those of her children, her great-uncle and even their young ward, and was comforted in a way she had not felt in nearly a fortnight.

 _My family, my life,_ she thought with gratitude. She turned to look at Sandor now. _My love._

“Sandor,” she whispered turning back to him, “I am sorry, my love.”

He eyed her fiercely. “You’ve nothing to be sorry for, little bird,” he rasped, “it was no fault of yours, so don’t you take it on yourself.

She reached her hand out to lay it gently on his arm. “I- I fear I have been neglecting you,” she ventured. “I have been so…so overcome with my own grief that I have forgotten yours.” She squeezed his arm now. “Sandor, I- I’m sorry.”

Sandor looked down at Benjen who squirmed in his lap and settled again.

“You needed your rest,” he repeated without looking at her, “and to get well. You didn’t need to be thinking of me, little bird.”

Sansa leaned her head closer to his shoulder. “Sandor, I shall never recover without thinking of you: we…we have both lost a child,” she hesitated as she choked up, “our child. We should be mourning together; and c-comforting each other,” she managed to finish saying.

When he slowly turned his head to look at her, her eyes brimmed with tears again. Though his face remained solemn, she could see the depths of his pain in his eyes: a reflection of her own loss and heartbreak. Feeling her emotions rise in her again, she spoke softly.

“Let us just sit together now, shall we? We need not speak if you rather not. I- I want to be with my family.”

Sandor nodded once and lowered his eyes back down to look at Benjen. Sansa left her hand on his arm for comfort until Brynden eventually came over to her, abandoning his brothers and the Blackfish’s tale. He reached his arms around her waist and put his head in her lap.

“Mama,” he sighed.

“You see,” remarked the Blackfish to the older boys, “he _is_ tired of hearing about the Stepstones.”

Sansa stroked her son’s head. “I think mayhaps he is just tired,” she observed as she looked down on him. “Are you a sleepy boy? Yes, so is Benjen. It is time for both of you to go to bed, I think.”

“Shall I carry him?” the Blackfish offered.

“Brynden is a big boy,” Sandor rasped firmly, “he can walk. Can’t you, boy?”

Brynden rubber his eyes but nodded. “Yes, Papa,” he yawned.

“Come along, then,” Sandor admonished as he stood up. “Take your mother’s hand, son.”

Brynden turned and took his mother’s hand. “Come, Mama,” he offered innocently, “I take care of you.”

Sansa smiled down with love on her son. He had a serious and watchful nature that sometimes made her think of her father. She thought it absurd to imagine her dutiful father as having once been a small boy; and yet he had been, as surely as she and her brothers and sister had once all been children. Now, as she looked upon her children with Sandor, she realized that they would all grow to be adults, with their own duties and families, all save Jonquil. A sharp pain cut through her suddenly, making her catch her breath.

Sandor looked at her concernedly. “What is it? Do you needs sit back down?” he barked harshly.

“N-no, Sandor, I am fine,” she began.

But her great-uncle was behind her already, putting his hand gently on her arm.

“Sit down, Sansa. You take too much on yourself,” he murmured.

“Truly, great-uncle Brynden-“

“Here,” Sandor passed Benjen to the Blackfish’s arms and the old warrior turned to his namesake.

“It will be me putting you to bed, Brynden,” he told him with a smile, “mayhaps your brothers will come with us and we’ll finish our story.”

The three boys all rose from their slouched positions on the floor at once. They knew a suggestion from the Blackfish was equal to a command; and as boys they were wary of any sign of female weakness or illness and were inwardly relieved to have reason to leave the solar.

“Come on, Brynden: we’ll get to hear again how Maelys the Monstrous lost both of his heads,” Robb enthused hollowly.

All the men save Sandor left the solar at once, leaving Catya alone with her parents. After a moment she wrung her hands together and stood up.

“I- I’ll say goodnight then,” she told them. She walked to Sansa and bent to kiss her cheek, and then to her father to raise herself on tiptoe to kiss him as well. “I am pleased that you feel better, Mama,” she smiled over her shoulder as she left.

“Sleep well, sweet Catya,” Sansa called softly to her.

They were left alone now, and Sansa sat in her chair looking up at Sandor expectantly. Instead of walking to her, he moved to the hearth to add another log to the already roaring fire. Sansa clutched her hands together and waited patiently.

Sandor cleared his throat now. “Shall I help you to bed, little bird?”

She smiled timidly. “Not yet, please, Sandor. I have spent days in our chamber, and wished to be out among my family again…but I seem to have driven them all away…” she noted wistfully.

“They want you to be well again,” he rasped formally.

“And I will be,” she paused and looked up to him now. “I will be well, Sandor; but…I do not know if it will ever be quite the same.” She bit her lip and shook her head. “There will be times…like this very night, when I will miss a child who is not with us,” she explained softly.

Sandor still stood by the hearth with his hand resting on the mantle and for several long moments the crackling of the fire was all that could be heard. Then he sighed.

“I’m sorry, little bird,” he still did not turn to her. “I would do anything to make it right again for you-“

Sansa rose now and walked to him. She placed her hand on his arm and, when he kept his back to her, rested her cheek against his shoulder.

“It will be right again, Sandor,” she whispered.

He shook his head. “I stood there and watched them beat you bloody,” he spat out between clenched teeth, “I promised to keep you safe, and swore no one would hurt you again…but I don’t know who or what to fight or kill this time, little bird: I don’t know how to protect you from…from…” he pounded his fist against the stone wall in frustration.

“Sandor,” she breathed, “you must know that there is no way for you to protect me from loss, from…from d-death,” she stammered. “If I hurts now it is because I love so much: you, our children, and our poor, lost babe, Sandor.” She wept softly now and pressed her head closer to his broad back and strong shoulder. “I fear the only way that I could protect myself from feeling grief is to not allow myself to feel anything; of course that is impossible. And so not you…not anyone  one can protect me from such…such pain and heartache that I feel at the loss of our daughter,” she squeaked in a high voice full of tears, “but we can comfort each other, Sandor, and take comfort in our family together. Please, Sandor: I- I am so sorry that I shut you out. I truly did not mean to forsake you. Please do not turn from me now, my love; I know you grieve for her too.”

Suddenly his arms were around her, holding her close to him so that her face pressed into his throat and she could feel his warmth and smell his skin. She could also feel him shake as he tried to speak.

“She- she was so small,” he choked out, “and so helpless. Why was I so _fucking helpless_ , little bird?”

“Shh,” Sansa soothed him through her own tears. “It’s alright, my love; there was naught that we could do. You were strong for me, my love, and…for her.”

“I couldn’t protect my own babe,” he rasped harshly. “ _Damn me_!”

“You stayed with me, Sandor,” she told him, “you stayed with our children while I grieved. I thank you for that; and I pray that Catya was a comfort to you…when I was not.”

He held her tighter still. “Aye,” he rasped hoarsely, “she’s a good girl, our girl.”

“Yes,” she affirmed, “she is so like you. Sandor,” she said as she leaned back to look up at him, “Sandor, my greatest joy has been giving you children, and to see how very much you love them.”

He looked down on her sadly so she reached to caress his cheek, the burned side of his face.

“I had to pretend once not to care for my family, and to act as though I felt nothing…and I swore that I never would do so again. And I know, my love, that you once felt nothing, or claimed to feel nothing, because you did not wish to suffer pain or loss again.” She looked searchingly into his eyes. “Please, my love, do not armour yourself in anger…least of all at yourself. You have always done everything for me and for our children…even Jonquil, Sandor.”

He shook his head faintly.

“ _Yes_ , my love. Just because she…she did not live, does not mean you have failed.” She took his face in both her hands now. “You have _never_ failed us, Sandor; and I know that you never shall.”

He lowered his eyes from hers, abashed. “I wish I had your faith, little bird.”

Sansa had told him how she felt, how she loved and trusted him. She could say no more; and so she stretched up to kiss him tenderly.

“But you do have faith, Sandor; and you will remember again soon.” His faith in himself had been shaken, she realized, but it would return. Not the Mountain, not the Lannisters, not the Others had succeeded in defeating Sandor Clegane. A brown brother of the Quiet Isle had taught him his worth when he saved him from death on the banks of the Trident. Sansa had loved the man he had become when they had found each other again and their children all loved and looked up to their Papa.

But Sandor still hung his head, defeated.

“I pledged my sword to you, little bird; and then my life when we wed in your godswood…”

“I would want no other life but the one I have with you, Sandor. Being with you has made me stronger and happier than I could have ever have imagined.”

His mouth twitched now. “Not even when you were chirping and dreaming of true knights, little bird?”

Sansa held his gaze levelly. “I was a girl then; I am a woman now.”

He raised one of her hands to kiss it now. “My lady,” he murmured warmly.

“I have also pledged my life to you, Sandor,” she continued softly now, “and I would also not see you suffer from loss…” she stopped herself. _As you have before_ , she thought to herself though she had not mentioned his long dead sister since before Catya was born, when she offered to name their first girl for her. She knew how much it pained him to think of her; and Sansa suspected that he had not been able to protect her from their violent brother, the Mountain. After all their years together, Sandor had still never told her how she had died and to her mind it was testimony to how haunted he must feel. Of course he would mourn their infant daughter, and rage at this own helplessness to save her from death. Her heart ached for him, for the sad burden he carried with him and could not seem to let out. But she could not let him allow his grief to make him hard and alone again.

“I know that you are strong, Sandor,” she continued instead, “but it was also been my wish to make you happy…” she trailed off dispiritedly and clutched his arm tightly again. “I- I know these last many days have not been happy ones, my love, for either of us,” her voice weakened as she forced herself to go on, “and I am sorry for all of us. But we have both suffered losses before this, Sandor; so many losses that I once thought I would die of grief, or at least that I should never be happy again. But we found each other again, Sandor, and that made us happy; and now we have our home and our own family,” she could not help sniffling, “as well as each other. We need not be alone in our grief, as we once had to be. I think…I think if we share our grief, and do not let it come between us as I have let it come between us, Sandor, then I know that we shall be strong and happy again.”

Sandor raised his head now and looked down on her, on her beautiful, saddened face, and swallowed hard.

“Aye,” he whispered hoarsely, “that we will, little bird,” he told her before he gently pulled her to him again. He stoked her hair as he held her, and felt her shuddering breaths as she sobbed silently against him. He would let himself grieve with her and suffer the loss of his daughter; Sandor realized that he could never deny the love he felt for his family, and his little bird. “You’re strong and brave, little bird; and you have made this old dog very happy. You have the right of it: in time, when this sadness passes, or at least lessens, then we’ll be happy again.” He rested his scarred cheek against the top her head, and held her tighter.

 


	5. Chapter 5

 EPILOGUE

The autumn morning air was cool but the day was already dawning bright and sunny when Sansa rose to see Sandor off to the wolfswood with Benjen and Brynden. He had told the boys that they would go together and that he would teach them to snare rabbits. Brynden had even picked out a dagger from the weapons in the armory and he wore it strapped to his hip. Every so often he would touch the hilt and smile to himself with a shy pride. His father was going to show him how to skin a rabbit to roast on a spit.

Sandor had promised to take them hunting after their sister Catya was married and she had left Winterfell for the Reach with her new husband and his family. The Tyrells had travelled North for the wedding of young Loras Tyrell, the eldest son of Garlan and Leonette Tyrell, to Sandor and Sansa’s daughter. Winterfell had hosted feasting and hunting and finally the wedding. The castle had been filled to bursting with guests from all over the North; even Jon had come from the Wall. Sansa and Sandor had needed to attend to them all and so they had little time in the previous fortnight to give their attention to their youngest children.

There were only the three of them leaving from the hunters’ gate that morning; there was no need of huntsmen or hounds for catching rabbits. They each had bedrolls strapped across their backs and Sandor carried only a small sack of provisions. Sandor had told his sons they would needs learn to survive in the woods and live off the land, as soldiers often needed to do; and that he would teach them.

Sansa stood before her husband now wrapped in her fur-trimmed wool cloak.

“You are good to take them, Sandor. They are so excited to spend time with you in the wolfswood.”

“I’m going to bring you a rabbit skin, Mama,” Benjen piped up.

Sansa smiled down on him. “All I want from the wolfswood is to have my sweet boys back,” she told him. “Now be good for your father and he will teach you everything he knows.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to come with us?” Sandor teased her. “I remember teaching you to lay snares once; you can see if you still remember.”

“I much prefer the comforts of Winterfell, my love,” she whispered closely, “though I will miss having you by my side tonight.”

Sandor brushed her cheek with the backs of his fingers. “We’ll return in two days’ time, little bird,” he hesitated, “I feel  like hell leaving you so soon after Catya has gone, especially knowing that we will needs ride to Greywind Keep shortly…but I promised them,” he swept his hand over the boys’ heads.

“And you must keep your promise, my love; I understand, and I will be perfectly well until you return.”

“Ned and Robb will protect you, Mama,” Brynden assured her seriously now, “and uncle Rickon and great-uncle Brynden too.”

“And I promise we will look after your puppies until you return,” Sansa assured them. Maege Mormont of Bear Island had gifted both boys with their own puppies: the two furry, black dogs had been named Thunder and Storm. Sandor had decreed that they would stay behind from their hunt, claiming they would either chase off the rabbits or catch them all themselves.

Sansa bent to kiss her sons’ cheeks goodbye and then turned back to Sandor to receive his kiss.

Sandor turned to his sons now. “Well, don’t stand there,” he barked, “the wolfswood won’t come to us. Pick up your feet, men!”

The boys fairly ran out the gate, not because of Sandor’s gruffness but because they were eager to be off and so they were laughing in anticipation. Sandor picked up his sack and followed at a slower pace. Sansa watched them leave for a long time, long after they walked out of the shade of the western side of the castle into the sun and across the grass: the tall, strong figure of her husband flanked by her small boys who darted away and ran back to him. She saw him gesture as he walked and she knew he was speaking to them; his sons looked up to him attentively and so she smiled. Her boys would be good, strong men, just like their older brothers; Sandor would teach them.

 _My family_ , she reflected contentedly as she turned back to the yard. Soldiers were training under the supervision of her great-uncle, the Blackfish. She caught his eye and he nodded to her before turning his attention back to the garrison. Ned and Robb were among them somewhere but she had no wish to distract them from their duties though her eyes could not help seeking them out. Her eldest boy Ned would have duties enough soon if the trip to Greywind Keep with his father resulted in the castle being garrisoned for the winter. Ned had asked to command the garrison but Sandor planned to name him acting Lord in his stead. Sandor had no real interest in their holdings which were made up of the lands that had once belonged to the defeated and extinct House Bolton, though they needed to rebuild a new keep to replace the ruined Dreadfort. Sansa had no desire to live anywhere but Winterfell ever again.

She turned away and walked into Winterfell’s hall and went searching for the steward.

“Shall I accompany you, my lady?”the steward asked her later as he prepared a torch for Sansa.

“I thank you, no. I should like to go alone,” she replied with a gentle smile.

“Very well, my lady,” he bowed his head respectfully.

Sansa held the torch aloft with one hand and raised her skirts with the other as she descended into the crypt beneath Winterfell.

She felt the cold air when she had descended only a few steps down and thought to turn back for her shawl but she continued instead. She had not been to the crypts in some time; nearly three turns of the moon.

Sansa walked past the long rows of carved figures in the gloom. She passed former Kings of the North and Lord Starks until she reached the last, the newest ones. Sansa placed the torch on the wall behind her and stood before her father’s likeness. Though his bones had been returned to Winterfell by Lord Howland Reed when she herself returned, it had been some years before they had found a stonemason who remembered her father’s face well enough to carve Eddard Stark’s tomb. The new smith in Winterfell had solemnly presented her and Rickon with the sword he had forged for their father’s statue to hold. It still gleamed in the dank darkness of the crypt.

“Father,” she whispered, “my firstborn, my eldest daughter is wed…to a fine young man: brave and gentle and strong, as you once wished for me…” she paused to stop her tears. “I’m so sorry, Father, for everything; if I had obeyed you then mayhaps you and Mother and even Robb would still be with us.” Sansa knew now it was unlikely that her father would have survived the Lannisters’ plots. King Robert had unintentionally marked him for betrayal and death when he named his old friend regent to his son, Joffrey before he died. King Robert should have known that no Lannister would have let anyone stand between them and the Iron Throne. Still, she had disobeyed him, her own father, in favor of the then-queen Cersei Lannister, and could not forgive herself.

Sansa moved over now to the wall of Stark descendants who were buried simply in the mausoleum behind stone markers; not like the kings and lords. She would be buried here one day, she knew; and it comforted her to think she would be with her family forever. She reached to put her hand on the still clean stone, untouched by moss and only thinly veiled with dust. She wiped it away with her hand. _Clegane,_ it read simply in large carved letters. Beneath was the name of her only other daughter.

“My sweet Jonquil,” she murmured. “Your sister was married here some days ago…oh, Jonquil, she was so beautiful and so happy. I would have wished the same for you one day…to see you grown up so beautiful and to be happily wedded to a fine young man. Of course your father mayhaps would have treated him even more harshly than Ser Loras,” she smiled, “for you would be his baby girl. Your father may despise songs but he would have been a great fool and an even greater knight for you…just as Florian was to _his_ Jonquil.”

Even after the passing of over three years, Sansa still mourned her infant daughter. No matter how content she was with her family life, there was always a small piece missing. She felt it almost every day; but she felt it most keenly on the happiest family occasions, such as the joyously boisterous wedding they had just hosted.

She knew that Sandor thought of her too, for the flowers turning limp in the holder set into the stone wall were not the jonquils Sansa brought with her when she visited, but a tangle of purple wildflowers from the wolfswood. Sandor sometimes brought her some back from his rides though he always left them on her dressing table or her pillow; he never presented her with them as a knight would have. It always made her smile to see them. The loss of their newborn daughter and their respective grief had almost made them distant of each other; but Sansa’s realization that she had been keeping herself from Sandor had led her to reach out to him and invite him to share their grief together. In time, it had brought them even closer though she had wished fervently that she could have given him more children. She sometimes prayed that she still would.

She trailed her fingers over the carved letters now. “He took your brothers to the wolfswood, to teach them to hunt rabbits. He is such a good father, Jonquil, I wish you could have known him as your sister and brothers do,” she stopped to sniffle. “He would have taught you so much, and loved you so much, my Jonquil; as I would have…as I do. You were not ours long, my sweet babe; but you are still our family, and still in our hearts...and always will be. I swear to you.”

Sansa reached to take the torch again but then turned back and leaned in now to kiss the cold stone and rest her forehead there briefly.

“Catya has left for the Reach, and soon Ned will be leaving us for Greywind Keep, to act as lord in your father’s stead. One day Robb will leave and then Bryden and Benjen too; mayhaps it should comfort me that you will never leave me; but I would rather have seen you grow up and leave us than…Oh, if only I could have held you even a little longer, my sweet babe,” she mourned. She took a deep breath to steady herself. “Sleep well, my Jonquil.”

Holding the torch aloft, she straightened her back and raised her chin and, lifting the hem of her gown, Sansa walked back to the steps to rejoin the autumn day at Winterfell.

FINIS

**AN: The scenes in this epilogue would take place between chapter 18 and 19 of the story “Everything To Lose”.**

 


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